


an extra dimension

by Maple_Fay



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Dela and Jinkx make some guest appearances, F/F, Good Omens references if you squint, also angst, and some of my favourite books, because that's how i roll, mentions of SaShea, this is mostly an excuse to write about two gals in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: “Well,” Ru mused, stretching her unfairly long legs across the emptied floor, the soles of her expensive pumps sticking to the carpet, "what do you know the first thing about, honey?"Also known as: the bookstore AU nobody asked for, but my mind demanded it be written.
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Comments: 44
Kudos: 53





	1. She Walked into a Fair

**Author's Note:**

> I have been pondering a generic bookstore!AU idea for a while now, but it wasn't until an ask posted on [@connyhascontrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connyhascontrol/pseuds/connyhascontrol)'s Tumblr blog that it all started to make sense in my head. The ask in question called for a "Good Omens" AU, and Conny provided a characterization idea that got the cogs in my head spinning like crazy: so, technically, she is my muse here: thank you so much! (Unless this turns out ratty, in which case... I'm sorry?) It's not EXACTLY "Good Omens" - no supernatural element here - but you might see some references to that amazing piece of art in this story.
> 
> The title reference will be explained in a later chapter, stay tuned! And, first and foremost: enjoy!

It used to be a pub, way back when. What’s left of it now, is the name—obviously—Katya’s memories, and the carpet. Some of the new patrons complain about getting stuck to it after spending too much time at one spot, but the regulars know better than to make an issue out of it. _Krisis_ is not a regular bookstore you visit for the newest bestseller in cheap paperback; it’s an _experience_: and everybody who’s taken the time to truly appreciate it, loves it. Katya most of all.

Which, given what most people think about their jobs? Is a true _blessing_.

However much the regular patrons seem to appreciate the place, though, she still needs to think of new ways to keep the business afloat: the competition never sleeps, and the readership numbers are dropping fiercely. This is why, at any given time of day—and sometimes even way into the night—you might find her behind the counter, perched on her rackety swivel chair and painting away: motivational postcards, novelty cards, you name it, she has them, or will make them for you on demand. It might have started as a whimsical way to kill time in between customers, but—for reasons yet undiscovered—on some days, the cards (alongside the wacky jewellery and trinkets she either gets in bulk at pound shops, or makes herself) bring her more money than all the other stationery and books she sells. She sometimes wonders whether this makes _Krisis_ more of a novelty shop than a bookstore, but ultimately: who cares? She likes it, her customers like it, she’s mostly in the black and can afford to buy her tea and lipsticks, and pay the bills for the tiny flat over the shop: at the end of the day, it makes her happy. Calm. Collected. Grounded.

What more could she possibly hope for?

Ginger thinks she knows the answer to this one, or so she says on a daily basis: she urges Katya to get more of a social life, or at least: to step out of her comfort zone from time to time. She means well, in her unique, brusque way—but Katya believes she’s had her share of both, with mixed results. And that’s a euphemism, by the way.

She’s done it all: the partying, the shagging in the alleyways of Soho, the festival weekends that lasted all summer and ended with her family picking her up from a precinct in Wiltshire, Cornwall, or Swansea. The waking up on a bench next to a bus stop in Manchester, only to find out that her coach to London has come and gone hours before. The doomed relations with needy, drunk girls, never lasting long enough to earn a name of ‘relation_ship_’. The downward spiral of no-longer-tremendous highs, and completely shitty lows.

She emerged from her twenties a burn-out, staring blankly out of a window of the institution her parents put her in as their last attempt to help. It rained every day, the garden outside turning greener and soggier by the hour, and Katya felt her heart turning into a sponge-like fixture, soaking up the antidepressants and the _un_relatable lines dropped willy-nilly by the so-called group therapist. She resigned herself to a lifetime of drugs and disappointment, felt all joy and purpose drain away from her with the rainwater.

So when Ru visited her on the ward, and asked if she wanted to take over her pub—a place Katya knew better than her home those days—as she crossed the pond to join her new husband in the land of plenty, it came as a true shock. Her, a pub owner? With all the baggage she was bringing (would bring) in? It sounded like the worst idea since Brexit.

Naturally, she underestimated Ru’s planning: the clause of _Krisis_ being turned into something (_anything_) other than a pub, should Katya take its reins. The sobriety program Ru’d already enrolled her in. The quiet flat over the shop where Katya would be staying, since her coming back to Alaska and Phi Phi’s would have been a complete and undeniable train wreck.

She pondered business ideas with Ru, who would still keep ownership of the place. A café would have been nice, if not for twenty-some joints of that ilk located in the immediate neighbourhood. Any type of a venue that would require selling and serving alcohol was immediately discarded as an idea, for obvious reasons. And Katya did not know first thing about cooking.

“Well,” Ru mused, stretching her unfairly long legs across the emptied floor, the soles of her expensive pumps sticking to the carpet, "what _do_ you know the first thing about, honey?"

Bookstore it was to be, then. To everyone’s surprise, and Katya’s quiet satisfaction, it stuck, and it’s still here, eleven months in: as old as her sobriety, and the single potted plant she keeps in the window next to her desk.

\--

On Fridays, Katya doesn’t close up until nine in the evening, sometimes even past that time. She enjoys the rush of people coming through the door to browse the shelves and meet up with like-minded friends, away from the drama of clubbing and glamour. She likes to talk to those stopping by to pick a card on their way to a party, explain the meaning behind the quotes she carefully puts down in colourful ink. Some people—some _girls_, let's keep things simple—take her interest in their purchases as a sign of interest in _themselves_, and try to throw some lines over the bar-cum-counter, but she shoots them down in a polite yet straightforward manner, not wanting there to be any doubt about her intentions. She’s here to make a living, and provide likeminded people with top-quality service—not look for a hook-up. She’s not a saint, she’s _practical_. And also: strangely shy about her newfound persona, one that’s sober and doesn’t party anymore, preferring milky oolong tea to vodka martinis and sweater vests to slutty lingerie. (She may still be wearing that underneath, but that’s for her to know and the thirsty booklovers _not_ to find out.) She puts some smooth jazz on, spreads the materials for her next novelty card on the slanted worktop on her side of the counter, sips on her drink and cashes in an occasional purchase. It’s all good.

On most nights, that is.

Tonight, however, the shop is eerily empty, despite the early hour: a torrential downpour swooped over London in the late afternoon, and the street outside the shop is swept clean off leaves, rubbish—and people. The rain doesn’t show any signs of ceasing anytime soon, and has given the shop interior a nasty, cold and damp feel that chills Katya to the bone despite her thick, dove-grey sweater; she seriously ponders closing up before six for the first time in _forever_: she has a book on her bedside table calling her name, and a slight chance of actually getting some hot water tonight, before her _hot mess_ of a crafty neighbour steals it all. A long, relaxing shower sounds divine right about now—Katya stops herself and snorts under her breath, shaking her head at the fall of Zamo, the Messy Queen. That clubbing-drinking-shagging-drugging-herself-up bitch would have laughed her arse off at present day Katya’s idea of a racy night. Some hot water and a book. Bring on the party!

She lets herself drift momentarily, pondering the possibility of going back to _that_—and lets out a girlish yell as the door to the bookstore bang against the wall, a thick tome of Yeats’ collected works (early edition!!) falling to the ground and getting drenched with rainwater. Katya sprints towards it from behind the counter, and stops dead in her tracks when a hand adorned with hot pink acrylics and a bizarre snake tattoo reaches out and grabs the book from the floor.

“Oh, bugger that! I guess I’ll take it, now, eh? How much do I owe you?”

Katya blinks slowly, her eyes travelling up a pair of shapely legs wrapped in black denim, over a belt buckle shaped like a rotten apple (she loves it), to a black, frilly shirt stretching tantalizingly over a pair of _amazing_ breasts; higher still, to a soft cheeked face and a mop of golden hair. She can’t actually make out any of the _features_ of the person before her—she’s got black splodges of heavy make-up running down her face, and pink tinted glasses on her nose, despite the weather—but her heartbeat immediately picks up a crazy rhythm, rendering Katya completely speechless. The stranger clocks her stunned expression and snorts, wiping at her eyes with a free hand.

“Well? Am I supposed to guess the price, then? It can’t be much, ‘s not a Bishop manuscript or anything—“

Katya swallows, and decides she might be the tiniest bit in love.

The stranger smiles at her, raising one eyebrow—once perfectly painted, now ragged and runny—and shakes some water out of her hair, tiny droplets landing on Katya’s hands and all but _burning_ her.

And then, just to add to all the confusion and clichés, the lights go out.

Katya hears the strange woman gasp, and then—a shrill, crazy-sounding cackle bounces around the small space, and she cannot help but laugh with her. Here they are, complete strangers, submerged in the darkness, with a book hanging between them waiting to be saved: and they’re laughing their arses off like madwomen.

It’s ridiculous, it’s bonkers, it’s completely irrational.

It makes something inside Katya snap, and fall back into place: a little part of her she didn’t even realize was missing.

“Hold on, let me find a candle…”

** _TBC…_ **


	2. Speaking My Language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great big heartful THANK YOU to everyone who's taken the time to read through my feeble mind's creation. Your kind comments and kudos feed my ego and keep me going, hopefully: in the right direction. Enjoy the next chapter!

“Oh, I can help you with that!” There’s rustling and fumbling, Katya hears fabric moving against skin and metal, and the strange woman flicks on an old-fashioned gas lighter, raising it up to her shoulder. She’s over a head taller than Katya, their difference in height accentuated by her back straightening in pride at her own craftiness. Her teeth glint in the faint light, white, but slightly crooked. Fang-like.

Katya can feel herself getting dizzy.

“Brilliant, ta’,” she breezes, already walking back to her place behind the counter, reaching down into her box of candles. Despite this being a fairly good location, _Krisis_ has a particularly shitty wiring, something she'd known even in her partying days, when the blackouts would happen in the middle of the night on a semi-regular basis. (Katya never minded that—she used to make good use of the ‘impromptu darkroom’ situations as they arose, pun very much intended.) Ru was supposed to fix it when they were converting the pub into the shop it serves us now, but the overall cost was too much, and Katya insisted she’d be fine. And look, she is, with emergency candle supplies hidden everywhere around the floor.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t seem to impress her guest. “Open fire? In a _bookstore_? Really?”

Katya snorts, putting a large, bottom-less mason jar over the thick, white candle on its custom-made brass plate, and moving the contraption to the window sill, away from the flammables. She busies herself with preparing another one for the counter, tries to keep her voice level, casual. “Don’t worry, miss. I know my way around this place.”

“I’m surprised,” the woman mutters under her breath, looking around the overflowing bookshelves, boxes of trinkets and homemade (_Katya_-made) racks of novelty cards. “How can you possibly find _anything_ in this clutter is beyond me.”

“Which is why I’m the one behind the counter, and you’re here to seek my expert knowledge in finding…” She pauses, takes another quick look at her unexpected patron: black clothes, pink glasses pushed up into a mass of golden curls that doesn’t exactly go with the whole gothic look, heavy make-up, a black, cardboard folder under one arm, the Yeats under the other. She can make neither heads nor tails of all this. “…whatever it is you’re looking for.” She summons up her number-one-customer-facing-smile, and clasps her hands together. “I’m Katya Zamolodchikova—welcome to _Krisis_, your favourite source of top-quality books and off-the-rails gadgetry! How can I help you today?"

The woman studies her with an unreadable expression on her face, no doubt due to her ruined make-up and the low lighting. Otherwise, Katya would have pegged her as shocked, and completely unprepared to answer the question. “Hello, Ms.—“ her lips move in silent trial, but she gives up almost immediately, “—Katya. I’m actually looking for… a greetings card I could give to my friend.”

Oh, alright, then. The Bishop comment from before must have been a ruse of some sorts; she’s not looking to buy a book: disappointing, but not surprising in the current economy. This, Katya can do with her eyes closed—pairing people up with the merchandise she’s created herself is much easier than finding _the correct type of literature_ for a complete stranger. She much prefers recommending books to people she knows and likes.

Still, a small part of her mind wishes she _could_ make a recommendation for this particular stranger. Maybe not today, but in a few weeks or months…

She’s getting ahead of herself, and she knows it. She doesn’t even know her name, for fuck’s sake. _Get a grip, Zamo_.

“Perfect! Some regular stationery is over there,” she gestures to the far-right corner of the room, “and our, uh, custom-made cards are on the other side.” She hands the woman a small LED flashlight, takes the Yeats in return. Their fingers don’t brush at either exchange. “Afraid I can’t do sh—_anything_ about the lights, so let me know if you need any help!”

The blonde nods, flips on the flashlight and marches away to the left: straight in for Katya’s stuff, then. It makes her a little bit nervous, but she crushes the anxiety in the bud. So what if she doesn’t like them? There’s Paperblancs and shit on the other rack, she’ll find what she’s looking for, eventually. And if what she wants isn’t Katya’s work—well. She’s past the point of hoping that every hot and interesting bird that walks through the door falls instantly under her spell.

Or so she hopes.

As the stranger browses through the cards, Katya lights up a third candle, setting it on the other side of the work station. She feels sort of like a medieval monk in a scriptorium, illuminating a manuscript of the Bible (funny how that works in the general context of _Katya_), taking up her nib and dipping it in purple ink. She checks back with the book, confirms her progress, finds the guidance lines sketched softly into the paper. **_A boat has to be tied up before_—**

“I’m sorry,” the woman says softly, walking back towards Katya emptyhanded. “I probably should have specified the _occasion_, too.”

Katya puts the nib down, blinks at the vaguely embarrassed customer. “Yeah, that might’ve helped. Didn’t find anything suitable over there?” The pang of disappointment bounces around her chest. She pounds it down, metaphorically for now.

“No, no—I mean, they’re all wicked good, but…” She quirks her head, looks down at Katya’s work. “Are you making one now? That’s amazing, although I must say I do worry about your eyesight. Maybe this will be the one for me?”

Katya pushes down a wave of hope that rises in her chest, shakes her head with an apologetic smile. “This one’s actually made to order—a friend of mine requested it specifically, she’s picking it up in the morning.”

“Oh,” the stranger’s face falls slightly—probably, Katya is starting to hate the otherwise romantic candlelight: how are you supposed to tell what a girl is thinking, if you can’t see her face?! “I should probably go, then, I’m clearly interrupting your process.”

_No way in hell is she going to allow that_. “I’m almost done with the lettering,” she proclaims hastily, giving the other woman her most brilliant, reassuring smile. “It needs to dry out for a while: maybe I could help you look for the right card in the meantime?”

She already knows she enjoys her laughter, but her smile—genuine, soft, showing all of the imperfect teeth and perfect sincerity, is even better. “Oh, yes, please! Can I watch? Or does it make you uncomfortable?”

The consideration is lovely; Katya normally hates it when people stare down at her hands as she works, but decides to make an exception just this once. “’Course! Come on over here, you’ll be in my light otherwise.”

She makes sure that the blonde is situated at the right angle to look down on the card, picks up the nib, and finishes off the sentence: **_—before you can fuck in it_**.

There it is again, the boisterous laughter that warms Katya up from the inside out. “Oh my _God_! I’m not sure if I want to know _who_ your friend is, but I might want to take her out sometimes.”

…and here’s the answer to the question Katya didn’t even manage to formulate in her head, much less ask out loud. How fortunate. “Her husband bought a summer house by a lake,” she explains. “I guess it’s… wishful thinking, on Ginger’s part.”

“I love it,” the blonde proclaims, reaching out past Katya’s left shoulder to touch the book, held open by brass clasps. “What’s it from?”

“_Christopher and His Kind_, by—“

“Isherwood, I know. You put a quote from a queer book on a card you’re about to give to a straight couple? That’s… ballsy.”

Katya smiles proudly, and pulls a square wicker box out from under the worktop. “Not at all. Every card I make has a quote from a book I’m currently reading, or have recently read, for KQBC—that’s _Krisis_ Queer Book Club. Club members get the first choice, the rest goes out to the rack—they sell pretty well, whether the customers realize the quote source or not.”

She pushes the box towards the other woman, who touches it with soft reverence. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She runs her fingertips over the top edges of the cards, pick one at random from the back end of the box. “_It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change_,” she reads out the words accompanied by a sketch of an alchemy set. "I think I've read this somewhere...”

“_Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit_.”

“Right! Have anything from _Tipping the Velvet_?”

Katya spreads out her empty hands, shakes her head apologetically. “We read that last year, all sold out.”

Another card gets pulled, this time from the front of the box. “’Congratulations on your _room with a view of a poem_.’” Katya is particularly proud of the sketch on that one: an open window overlooking a bucolic meadow, a river winding through the landscape in the background. “This is the one! My friend has recently moved to a new flat, it works perfectly!”

“It’s yours, then,” Katya smiles, unable to hide her relief—she managed to create something that this peculiar woman likes, which gives her validation by proxy. She might be a tad bit pathetic, but at least she knows it. “And just for two-fifty, too.”

The blonde laughs again, pushes a hand into the pocket of her tight jeans (Katya notices with overwhelming clarity how close they are; she can smell the damp fabric and something else underneath it, musky and earthy and intoxicating), pulls out a fistful of loose change, presents it to Katya for the taking. She picks out three coins, noticing with surprise how warm the other woman’s skin is, despite the surrounding coldness and the damp. “Thank you. Would you like an envelope to go with it?”

“Please. So—you’re reading Isherwood with your book club?”

“That’s actually not until next month. We’re doing _Disobedience_ next week.”

The blonde scrunches up her nose in thought. It’s almost ridiculously cute. “Not sure I’ve heard of that one.”

Katya reaches down again, pulls out her own battered copy: she’s read it countless times before, has small pieces of paper, pressed flowers and pencil dust scattered between the pages, whole paragraphs underlined with exclamation marks and sad faces scribbled on the margins. "It's by Naomi Alderman—you know, she wrote _The Power_? It won quite a few prizes this past year.” She gets a nod, and goes on, encouraged, “This one is her first novel, about a conservative Jewish community. Belonging somewhere, finding your own identity, the likes.”

“And it’s… queer?”

Katya smiles, remembers all the times she had to put the book down, overwhelmed, saddened, aroused. “Very much so.”

The blonde shuffles from foot to foot, quirks her head to the side. “Do you have a copy on sale?”

Katya shakes her head slowly, and pushes the book towards her, hoping her hands don’t shake too visibly. “I can lend you this one, though, if you promise to bring it back next week.” It might be a lame-ass excuse to see her again, but she hopes _oh so very much_ that it works. She leafs through the box, picks up a pale pink card she’s put together this very morning (it says: _It is a terrible, wretched thing to love someone who you know cannot love you_, but she’s not going to read it out loud, not now), puts it inside the book like a marker. “And an inspirational quote to go along with it. We meet here every other Tuesday, seven p.m.”

“I—can’t promise I’ll make it,” the blonde says, and Katya believes the sadness in her voice to be genuine. “I work in a corporate law firm, my hours are all sorts of crazy. I’ve only managed to get out at half five today, and _that’s_ cutting it early.”

“And you came here straight from the office?” Katya asks, raising an eyebrow and making a show of looking her up and down. “My, my. Some companies really do go all out on a Casual Friday.”

“Stop it! I changed in the loo, I was on my way to a party—not that it’s any of your business, missy!”

They laugh together, the sound dying out slowly as they share a long, knowing look. Katya pushes the book further away from herself; the other woman reaches out, their fingers touching, interlacing gently over the geometric image of two women embracing on the cover. Katya takes her time pulling her hand back. “I do hope you manage to come,” she says, only half-aware of the innuendo. “I’ll give you a card with our email, let me know if you can make it?”

She gets a firm head shake in reply, and her heart falls a little. “I’d have to use my corporate email account, and I don’t particularly like it. Could I maybe text you instead?”

“Sure!” Katya’s phone, an old, battered thing with a crack in the corner of the display, almost lands on the floor in her haste to unlock it. The blonde extracts it gently from her flailing hands—there it is again, the warmth she wants to bask in for hours—and puts her number in, together with a name. “_Trixie_.” She looks up, smiles brightly and gets a grin in return. “I like your name.”

“I like yours,” Trixie says, a little breathlessly, pressing the book close to her sternum, then pulling it away upon reflection. “Shit, I don’t want to get it wet. Do you maybe have a—” Katya is already pressing a _Krisis_ tote bag into her hands. “Oh, thanks.” Trixie puts her card and Katya's book inside, pulls the bag up to the crook of her elbow. “I still can’t promise I will make it to the meeting: but I _will_ get this back to you once I’ve read it.”

“You’d better, or I’ll have to stalk all law firms in Greater London, looking for a blonde with a cute name who's actually a closeted goth and a... not-so-closeted queer."

Trixie blinks and looks down at her hands, wrapped protectively around the bag. “That… might actually work out better for you, you know.”

Katya shakes her head slowly, then takes a leap and squeezes Trixie’s hand, once and very briefly, but surely.

“I doubt that very much.”

\--

It’s not until she comes back down on Saturday morning, to finish Ginger’s card and open the shop, that she finds a black, cardboard folder abandoned in the corner by the card rack. She traces the lines of “B. Mattel” written in bold black script on the label, resist the urge to take a peek inside. It’s a good omen, she thinks. Trixie will be back, and soon.

Katya can't _wait_ to see her again.

** _TBC…_ **


	3. Bright Minds in the Big City

It doesn’t happen until half past seven on Tuesday, when the KQBC meeting is well under way, and she’s all but given up.

It’s not about the book—although that particular copy was full of memories—she can get a new one any day. But Trixie… she’s something else. Katya barely knows anything about her, but finds herself inexplicably drawn to the boisterous laughter, the curiously warm hands, the face she hasn’t even seen properly yet, the intellect behind it. She wants to learn more: what makes Trixie tick, how does she take her tea; whether she prefers sugary or salty snacks; what’s her opinion on NHS and modern-day politics; what the skin behind her left knee tastes like; if she likes vinegar with her chips or not.

If she maybe, hopefully, likes Katya back.

All these thoughts are running through her head as she’s curled up in a rackety chair by the radiator, doing her best to follow Shea's diatribe on identity versus community, as portrayed by Naomi Alderman. She knows she’s not obliged to comment on it—Sasha is next in line to speak, and she’s never missed a chance to argue with her girl—but she should be listening to what everyone is saying, not hoping beyond hope that the door opens, and in walks…

The small, old-fashioned bell Ru got installed over the entrance, rings merrily. Katya raises her head and freezes. Shea actually pauses mid-word. Dela, the lovely, fancy, cute-as-a-button Dela in her baby blue dress, who’s been complimented for her look multiple times today, sighs in awe. Jinkx doesn’t hold back (Katya secretly believes the girl hasn’t even heard of a _filter_), and straight-up stares, jaw hanging low.

Trixie is a vision in cream and pink, from her nude pumps and sheer stockings to her cotton candy pencil skirt, ivory blouse, cream coat and coral scarf, perfectly colour coordinated with her lipstick and handbag. Tonight, on a pleasantly warm evening, her make-up is flawless: bold, black lines and warm beige and pink shadows accentuate her eyes (Katya can finally identify them as brown, and immediately decides she wants to drown in them completely), giving her face a young, fresh look, while still making her look one hundred percent like the executive woman in charge.

Katya can only speak for herself, naturally, but she firmly believes that every member of her book club has at some point of their life entertained a fantasy about a girl like Trixie—probably more than once. She can’t blame them; not when she’s already decided what her go-to image is going to be after everyone’s gone tonight.

She makes a conscious effort to snap out of it, and stands up from her chair, frantically wiping her hands off on her long, gypsy skirt. “Trixie, hello! You made it!”

“I’m _so_ sorry I’m late,” Trixie breathes, walking across the floor with the most sensual sway of her hips. (Behind Katya, Jinkx takes a long, noisy breath through her nose.) “Difficult case. I hope this helps me make up for it?”

She reaches into her oversized bag, and pulls out a bottle of red wine—pretty expensive, by the looks of it; wine has never been Katya’s thing, but she can at least tell that much. Her right hand twitches, but she makes no move to take the bottle from Trixie. There hasn’t been any booze at _Krisis_ since Ru decided to rebrand the place, an informed decision on Katya’s part—she’s fifteen months and twelve days sober, and she’d like to keep herself on track, please and thank you—but she also doesn’t want to offend Trixie by not accepting her gift, so…

Sasha comes to her rescue, jumping up from her chair and insinuating herself between Katya and Trixie’s extended arm. “Oh, that’s so sweet; you really shouldn’t have!” she exclaims, putting the bottle gently down at a side shelf. “We normally stick to tea at the start, unless the discussion gets particularly heated.” That’s a lie, but Trixie doesn’t need to know that, and Katya is extremely relieved for Sasha’s quick wit. “Shall I pour you a cuppa?”

Trixie looks slightly deflated, but nods gratefully, and takes off her perfectly tailored coat. “Milk, no sugar, please.” She looks around at the small circle of chairs, and furrows her brow. “Where should I sit?”

Katya realizes just then that she’s put out all the chairs she has in the shop—all _five_ of them. Trixie makes six, and as much as she wishes she could offer her own lap as a place of rest for Trixie’s amazing ass (currently on display as its owner turns and reaches up to hang her coat on a rack in the corner), it doesn’t exactly seem appropriate at this juncture. Acting her age, limiting the number of awkward jokes, and not making anyone regret knowing her are all new things in Katya’s repertoire of social interactions, but they haven’t let her down—yet. However, acting like a grown-up woman who is definitely _not_ a lewd sexual predator doesn’t help her solve the missing chair conundrum.

Once again, Sasha makes everything better, by offering Trixie her old seat (right next to Katya) and sitting crossed-legged on the floor between Shea’s knees. It looks natural enough not to make Katya worry about being seen as using her friends to enable her feeble attempts at wooing Trixie… whatever the truth might be.

“Have you read the book?” Jinkx asks Trixie as she sits down, eyeing the blonde from under thick, red bangs and leafing through her book with a dreamy smile. “Did you like it? We’ve been discussing the ending—we've all agreed that it sucked.”

Trixie blinks at her, and slowly pulls Katya’s copy of _Disobedience_ from the bag, wrapping her hands protectively around the cover. “I did read it—thank you for lending it to me, Katya,” she interjects quickly, with a smile that makes Katya’s cheeks feel hot, “but I don’t share your opinion of the ending.”

Jinkx blinks rapidly and quirks her head to the side. Katya tenses in her chair, back ramrod straight.

“Why not?” Shea asks, putting a hand almost casually on the back of Sasha’s shaved head. “Do you think that a single speech about the reality of an Orthodox Jewish woman wanting another woman, a speech followed by said woman’s return to her role of a dutiful wife and mother, was the right way to end the story?”

Trixie smiles at her, crosses her legs in one smooth motion, seemingly unaware of the tension in the room. “If you were looking for a happy ending defined by Esti and Ronit walking together into a sunset, then no,” Trixie says, accepting a mug of tea with a warm smile towards Sasha. “But in terms of Esti honouring the traditions of the community that created and supported her throughout her whole life? Now that’s a different story.

“She wanted to be heard, wanted the people around her to acknowledge that the queer part of her and the _religious_ part of her could easily coexist. I believe that was far more important to her than her romantic relationship with Ronit. In a way, she managed to have it all: revisit her love, while still remaining a part of her community.”

Silence stretches uncomfortably after she’s finished talking, the KQBC regulars exchanging quizzical glances. Katya looks down into her emptied mug, chips away a flake of red nail polish. She’s… disappointed, somehow. Everyone has an opinion, she knows that and it’s _fine_, it’s absolutely great: but somehow she wishes Trixie would have shared her own longing for the two miserable women to end up in a scenario that could take away some of that misery.

“What would you have done, then,” Dela asks softly, leaning back in her chair and bringing her body a little closer to Katya, “if you were faced with that choice?”

Trixie takes in the diminished distance between Katya and Dela, and hums thoughtfully. “I couldn't tell you. Luckily, I've never been forced to choose between the one person I loved, and the group of people that raised me. It might be because I've never—“ she stops herself, folds her hands on the book in her lap. “Well. Let’s just said I had a rocky start in life: despite being extremely privileged in my choices and opportunities, I managed to make a royal mess of it all. I’d had so many missteps on the way, I’ve fallen so hard—but throughout all this, my family has never abandoned me… and I do feel like I owe my loyalty primarily to those who always believing in me.”

“Fair enough,” Sasha nods, settling more comfortably against Shea’s legs. “As long as you remember that moral support is extremely important, but it's _you_ who actually did all the work. Whatever you’ve conquered or accomplished, whoever you’ve become: you’re here now because of your own free choices. And you should be very proud of that.”

Trixie sits back in her chair, watching Sasha with wide eyes and frowning prettily. “I—never thought of it that way.”

“It takes a while to acknowledge that the power—Alderman pun intended—to change and shape your life lies with you, and not with anyone else,” Sasha offers, smiling warmly at Trixie but somehow including all of them in it. “I don’t presume to know what you’ve been through, Trixie, but I can offer you this piece of advice from my vast arsenal of life experiences—“ Everyone but Trixie laughs: Sasha may look quite put mature and put together, but she's the youngest of the group, having only just graduated from Law. “In the end, you are the only person in your corner. Not the people who protected and supported you; certainly not the ones who'd tried to bring you down. You’re your own greatest ally. Treat yourself with respect.”

Everybody stares at Sasha in awe, and Katya feels a warm surge of pride at the thought of them sharing a piece of DNA as second cousins. Trixie looks flustered, clenching and unclenching her hands. "Right, then: speaking of practical experiences," Katya offers, trying to break the tension, "Jinkx, how did you think the book described the struggles faced in everyday life by women in a Jewish community?”

“Well, you’ve got to remember that my family was nowhere near that conservative: still…”

Jinkx is off on a roll, and Katya relaxes a little. Perhaps not everything is lost.

\--

They talk for much longer than the allocated two hours, yet nobody seems to want to be the first to go. Dela moves the conversation away from the book by complimenting Trixie’s fashion sense; then Sasha (bless her soul) chimes in, asking about the law firm Trixie works for, and a possibility of a fresh graduate doing some _pro bono_ cases with them. Trixie accepts the compliments with grace, but turns Sasha’s question around in a very lawyer-y way, avoiding both making any kinds of promises and actually naming her employer. She seem to be an extremely private person, electing not to answer any direct questions about her current living arrangements, specialty within the firm, and relationship status (much to Katya’s dismay).

She does offer a few bits and pieces about her past along the way: she’s from the country up North, her parents died in an accident when she was still very young, and after a period of rebellion and moving from one foster family to the next she ended up living with her aunt and uncle in London. They were the ones that pushed her to study law and join the firm she’s currently with—something that Katya finds a little peculiar, since she thinks of Trixie as a highly independent, and somewhat strong-minded individual.

Still, she knows enough about being pressured into making certain life choices to understand how the biscuit crumbles.

Trixie excuses herself to use the loo, and Shea somehow manages to get all the other girls out the door before she comes back. Katya feels a pang of anxiety and apprehension: it’s her first time being alone with Trixie in full-on fluorescent lighting, and she thinks that this whole thing could easily capsize at this point. She turns and smiles at Trixie, relaxing a touch when she smiles right back at her.

“Thanks again for lending me the book,” Trixie says, sliding the copy of _Disobedience_ across the counter until it touches Katya’s fingertips. “It was amazing—things like these really make you think, don’t they?”

“Completely,” Katya nods, pulling the book closer to herself and watching as Trixie’s fingers fall away from it softly. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Will we see you again, for the Isherwood meeting?”

Trixie leans a hip against the counter, drums her fingers against the top. “I think so! We didn’t even get around to the wine—it shouldn’t go to waste, don’t you think?”

_Here goes_. “First of all—you really didn’t need to apologize, but thank you! However—“ Katya swallows heavily, and looks Trixie straight in the eye, “—I’m a recovering drug addict and alcoholic, so I’m probably not the best company you could possibly share it with.”

Trixie pales and freezes, staring at her with an unreadable expression. “God. Shit. I—didn’t know. God. Sorry, Katya, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable…”

“’S all good,” she rushes to assure her, reaching out spontaneously and grasping her hand in hers. Trixie twists her palm to face up, presses it against Katya’s skin. “You couldn’t possibly have known about that.”

“I still feel bloody stupid,” Trixie insists, sliding her fingers between Katya’s. The intimacy of the gesture is certainly unexpected, but it somehow feels right to fit their palms together, squeeze Trixie’s hand reassuringly. “Let me make it up to you?”

Katya thinks she must be projecting something onto the world, or straight up dreaming. _How? Why? Yes, please! _You_ want to make something up to _me_?_ “That’s—very kind, but you really don’t have to—“

“I _want to_, though. Can I take you out? Are you open on Sunday? Let’s go somewhere fun. Or let me bring you lunch if you need to work?”

Katya actually laughs out loud, equal parts thrilled and amazed by the route their conversation has taken. “I don’t have to work, and _you_ don’t have to take me out—“ Trixie’s face falls visibly, and Katya instantly leans across the counter, wanting to be as close to her as possible, “—but I would _love_ to have lunch with you. Not because you feel like you owe me, though. I mean…” she looks down at their joined hands, noticing how messy her chipped burgundy nail polish looks next to Trixie’s perfectly applied pearly pink one. “I’m sort of a mess, Trixie. Just putting it out there, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Trixie rubs her thumb against Katya’s knuckles, squeezes her hand one last time and pulls back. “For the record, I think you’re absolutely stunning, devilishly clever, and extremely brave. And I... probably don't deserve this, but I would love to get to know you better.”

Katya’s grin is literally making her cheeks hurt. “We’re ridiculous, aren’t we?”

“Guess so.” Trixie’s phone vibrates in her handbag, and she frowns at the accessory with disgust. “I should probably check that. Could be work.”

“Oh, right,” Katya nods and pulls her hand away with barely more than a sigh of disappointment, like a responsible adult person should. “So... I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Definitely!” Trixie nods excitedly, but she seems a little… distant, drumming her fingers against the shiny surface of her bag. “Sunday brunch. Be prepared! I’ll text you the details.” She gives her one last aloof smile, and powerwalks towards the door, only stopping once she’s got her hand wrapped around the knob. “I had a really great time tonight, Katya. Thanks for including me in your group.” She looks around the room, at the small circle of chairs and empty cups, and bites her lip, shaking her head at something she doesn’t say. “See you Sunday.”

“Bye,” Katya says at her retreating back, and throws herself onto the swivel chair behind the counter. She still cannot believe any of this: that Trixie is actually, properly _real_, that she came to the meeting and liked the book; that she wants to see her again, outside the bookstore… She sees a black rectangle out of the corner of her eye, and groans in frustration. “Fuck. Me.”

She’s forgotten to return Trixie’s folder. What a dumbass.

Still… Trixie never asked for it, so perhaps it’s not that important? Here’s hoping.

And anyway: she’s going to see Trixie again, isn’t she? And perhaps they could go back here, after lunch or whatever Trixie's got in mind, and then...

Katya mock-slaps herself on the forehead. She’s getting _way_ ahead of herself.

First things first: she needs to figure out what to wear…

** _TBC…_ **


	4. Darling, Hold My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's commented/left kudos/stuck with this story up until this point: THANK YOU. I am having a blast writing it, and I am extremely happy to hear that you like it!
> 
> This chapter contains a few more "Good Omens" references. See if you can spot them all, and enjoy!

Trixie texts her on Saturday afternoon, asks to meet her at St. James’ Park on Sunday morning, and dress casual. Katya spends a fairly ridiculous amount of time fretting over what counts as ‘casual’ to people. She finally emerges from the house dressed in a thick, fluffy white coat, and a knitted dress reaching down to her knees, several chunky necklaces dangling from her neck. People stare at her as she rides the Tube, but she pays them no mind. She’s on her way to meet a gorgeous young woman, and nothing will spoil her mood today.

She finds Trixie sitting on a bench by the pond, very responsibly throwing sunflower seeds at the ducks (to be honest, they look quite disgusted by the lack of customary bread and sweet rolls). She’s wearing a hot pink coat, opened casually around her on the bench; underneath it she has on a black outfit quite similar to the one she’d worn when they first met, complete with black cowboy boots. She looks like a hard-core rebel that couldn’t be persuaded to give up cotton candy and glitter, and Katya loves every bit of it.

“Morning!” she sing-songs brightly, her heart fluttering at the look of delight on Trixie’s face. “Am I late?”

“Not at all!” Trixie pushes her pink tinted glasses into her hair; her make-up is, once again, quite flawless: boldly winged eyeliner and carefully drawn eyebrows, generous amount of blush and the lushest peach pink lipstick Katya has ever seen. She feels seriously underdressed for Trixie’s level of ‘casualness’. “I came early—couldn’t wait.”

“I know the feeling,” Katya nods, moving to sit on the bench. Trixie scoots to the side, elbowing her handbag—a large, pink number—out of the way. “So: what have you got planned for us today? Should I have written down my last will and testament?”

She’s meant it as a joke, but Trixie looks at her very seriously, turning on the bench to face her properly. “Katya—I hope you realize that I like you. Very much.”

Katya nods slowly, feeling a cautious wave of warmth spread from her chest to her cheeks. “That’s nice. I—like you, too.”

Trixie beams at her, all sharp teeth and loveliness, takes her hand gently in hers. “And I would like to know you better, because… well. I never expected I would meet someone like you, and get to like them. So—this is what today’s for. Us, getting to know each other better, hopefully while having lots and lots of fun. Is that alright with you?”

This time, Katya almost dislocates her shoulder with the intensity of her nod. “Very much so!”

“Perfect! Shall we start with breakfast, then?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Trixie leans in confidentially, as if she’s about to disclose the deepest secrets of the universe to Katya, “how do you feel about crêpes?”

\--

They take a pleasant stroll to Covent Garden, where Trixie pulls Katya into a lovely little crêperie and stuffs them both to the brim with savoury brunch crêpes, followed by a single sweet one—fresh strawberries, dark chocolate and double cream—which they share leisurely, their forks bumping against one another on the plate. Trixie insists on settling the bill, and as she follows the waitress to the counter, Katya browses the menu in search of the sweet concoction: she thinks she might have it again someday.

It’s called “Lady Loves”, and she immediately decides _never_ to have it again: unless it’s with Trixie.

Her skin is buzzing pleasantly as they exit the café, and she’s so relaxed that she doesn’t give it a single thought when Trixie turns to her and asks, with a devilishly wicked smile, “Can I tempt you with a little bit of fun, Miss?...”

After all, what could possibly happen to them today?

\--

“I can’t believe this has happened to me. Oh my God.”

“Katya—“

“Don’t you ‘Katya’ me, Trixie! There were _children_ in that room! It’s a miracle security people were not involved. _Yet_.”

“Admit it, though,” Trixie challenges her, chin raised high and a wicked little smile playing on her lips. “It was terrific, wasn’t it?”

Katya wheezes with laughter, unable to keep a straight face anymore. “Yes. Yes, it was, you absolute lunatic.”

When Trixie first suggested going to the National Portrait Gallery, Katya couldn’t fathom what it had to do with any kind of fun. When she suggested they took selfies with some of the most ridiculously quaffed gentlemen in wigs, she started seeing the appeal. By the time they’d got to the halfway point of the exhibition, she was fully on board with the project, and did not protest as Trixie pushed her into a wall by a particularly large painting, trying to get them both into a position that was _definitely_ Not Suitable For Work. Sadly, she didn’t find out whether that particular setup would lead to anything other than snapping pictures: as Katya laughed out loud in glee and flailed around, a couple of patrons accompanied by three small children threatened them with imminent arrest, on grounds of public indecency. Trixie looked ready for a heated argument, even as somebody went to fetch a security guard: Katya had to use all of her physical stamina, and much of the mental one, to pull her out of the hall and into the street, both of them gasping for breath with badly contained laughter.

They have _almost_ been kicked out of a public museum. Katya shakes her head, amazed and confused. She’s done some crazy things in her time, but never anything like this. (She should probably _refrain_ from doing _things like this_, given the amount of paperwork with her name on it she’d managed to accumulate at a local precinct. Getting into trouble with law again wouldn’t exactly reflect well on either her or Ru.) “Trixie, my God—what was that about?” she asks, not exactly angry, but certainly thrown by the type of entertainment Trixie seems to prefer. The other woman shrugs, looking at her with a sincere expression of nonchalance and cool.

“It looked like fun. I like doing things that bring me joy, I like the rush of playing with people’s stagnant ideas of what’s acceptable and what isn’t. Katya, look—most people take life way too seriously. I’m not saying that they shouldn’t, there are plenty of important things in life: but we should also be allowed to let go and just _have fun_ every once in a while. Did you have fun with me?”

Katya nods, a little petulantly, because she _did_, although she definitely shouldn’t have done. “You know I did, Trixie, just—let me know if anything else you’ve got planned for today could possibly, theoretically, _incidentally_ result in our brushing against the grain of the law? I know you’re probably some amazingly talented lawyer with friends in all the right places, but I’m _not_, and I’d rather not get myself into a sticky situation.” She swallows hard. “Again.”

Trixie frowns at her, a flicker of understanding appearing in her eye. “You’ve got a record?”

Katya nods unhappily. “I do. Back from my drug-abusing days. ‘S not the sexiest quality ever, so I don’t normally talk about it much.”

“I get it, I do,” Trixie rushes to assure her, taking one of Katya’s hands in both of hers. “Thank you for telling me. We’re good, don’t worry.”

_Are we, though?_, Katya thinks to herself, watching the frown remain on Trixie’s face, even though she keeps hold of Katya’s hand as they start walking down the street.

\--

They spend the rest of the afternoon walking around Camden Town, window-shopping and rummaging through boxes of weird paraphernalia. At one point, Trixie’s phone starts buzzing violently in her bag; she pulls it out, takes one look at the caller’s ID, and turns the device off completely. “Work,” she explains apologetically, her frown deepening slightly. Katya nods in understanding.

“Corporate firms can be tough, right?”

“Some more than others,” Trixie mutters to herself, and swiftly changes the subject to some obscure American singer she’s been obsessed with recently. Katya listens attentively, nodding at what she hopes are right intervals. She doesn’t know much about music, definitely not about country and western: but it’s one of the first genuine pieces of personal information Trixie has volunteered, so she’ll take whatever she can from it. And besides—Trixie has a lovely voice, and it’s just nice to walk with her, holding her hand and listening as she hums under her breath, quotes bits of lyrics she knows by heart. It feels—strangely domestic, and Katya basks in the feeling while it lasts.

By the time Trixie’s stomach rumbles with hunger, they’re close enough to Katya’s place for it not to seem desperate when she suggests going back to hers and ordering takeaway. On the way, they bicker about all the ways Indian cuisine is superior to Thai, but in the end agree on ordering Chinese.

Katya opens the doors to her flat with some apprehension: she doesn’t normally let people into her space, apart from Sasha and, occasionally, Shea—for all she knows, her living habits might make her either a hermit or a hoarder, or some bizarre combination of both. Fortunately, Trixie seems fascinated with her collection of Russian dolls, overcrowded bookshelves and limp houseplants (she immediately starts leafing through Katya’s crotons, looking for bugs and telling the plants off in a firm voice for _not growing to their best ability_). She’s taken her shoes off, and parades around the tiny flat in bright pink socks—the only non-black part of her outfit now that she’s taken her coat and glasses off—which makes her look absolutely cute. Not that Katya would ever tell her that. She lets Katya order for both of them, claiming she’ll eat anything—“I’m from the country, babe, I’ve got a steel-lined stomach”—and settles on the battered sofa in front of the telly. Katya joins her, and turns the box on, just to have some background noise in the room. An old episode of _Doctor Who_ in on, which naturally results in the inevitable discussion on preferences: they both agree on David Tennant being their favourite incarnation, which (as Trixie claims) is the ultimate compatibility test that should be taken by any two people attempting a relationship.

Katya wonders if that’s what they’re doing.

She’s not opposed to the idea.

Unfortunately, Trixie hasn’t seen _Torchwood_, which is a big misstep as far as Katya in concerned; she dives into her DVD hamper and puts on the first series, just to give her a taste. The first episode is almost ending by the time their food arrives, and they continue watching as they eat. Later, when Katya comes back from depositing empty containers and dirty plates in the kitchen, she finds Trixie curled up under a blanket, completely engrossed in the action on the screen. She lifts half of the blanket, inviting Katya in—and the moment she sits down, moves them around so that her head ends up in Katya’s lap.

“Hey,” Katya whispers hoarsely, very happy but also mightily confused, “Are you—is this—“

Trixie rolls her eyes, takes Katya’s hand and presses a quick kiss to the back of it, pulling it around to rest on her shoulder. Katya winds one blonde lock around her fingers. “I am, and it is,” she replies, snuggling closer. “Now watch your show.”

\--

Katya comes to when the finished DVD slides automatically out of the player. The room is dark, the light outside having faded completely, and Trixie’s make-up is starting to show signs of wear: especially as she groans and rubs at her eyes, jolted back to consciousness by Katya's waking muscle spasms. “Oh, bother,” she groans, rubbing mascara off her fingers. “I always do that.”

Katya clears her throat, unsure whether their earlier intimacy was something inherent to watching aliens being chased around Cardiff—or not. “Do you want some make-up remover?”

Trixie sits up, facing Katya on the sofa and looking a little bit sheepish. “Actually—I wasn’t sure what was going to happen today, so I… brought it with me?” She waves at the gigantic pink accessory currently residing on Katya’s side table, and it all clicks.

“Trixie. Did you come to our brunch with an _overnight bag_?”

The woman has the decency to blush. “I mean—I can go, if you—you know what, maybe I _should_ go…”

“No,” Katya stops her with a gentle touch on her cheek, her thumb sliding against fading lipstick in the corner of Trixie’s mouth. “Stay, please. Just… let’s take this slow, okay? I feel like I’m in a daze, and… I like everything about this,” she waves her free hand between them awkwardly, “but you’re going a little bit too fast for me, Trixie. Could you… give me a chance to catch up?”

Trixie moves her head a little and kisses Katya’s fingers. “Sure, honey. Take as much time as you need.”

\--

Katya does the gentlemanly thing and gives Trixie ample time to use the bathroom as she pulls her weathered sleeping bag out from the overhead closet, arranging it neatly on one half of the bed. They've agreed to share, but being under the same duvet as Trixie without having even kissed her yet seems strangely intimate. And for the record: Katya _wants_ to kiss Trixie, very many times and in very many places, but she's also meant what she said: things are progressing slightly too fast for her frazzled mind. She needs to sort it all out in her head, lest she makes some fatal mistake.

She’s busying herself in the kitchenette when Trixie emerges from the bathroom, and doesn’t return to the bedroom until after having taken a quick shower and changed into a pair of loose boxer shorts and a faded Radiohead tee. Her hair is a royal mess, and she feels gangly and exposed in her typical nightwear, but Trixie’s eyes light up instantly as she enters the room. She doesn’t get a good look at what Trixie’s wearing (perhaps it’s for the best), but it looks like it’s quite pink. Figures. Katya turns off the lights and scrambles to get into her sleeping bag. She settles down on her side, facing away from Trixie, to leave a respectable distance between them.

It lasts for approximately two minutes, because Trixie throws her duvet covered arm right over Katya’s middle, clenching a bit of the sleeping bag fabric between her fingers. “Okay?” Katya hums and nods, unable to speak, but feeling her body relax ever so slightly in Trixie’s embrace. She feels a quick, dry kiss being pressed into her shoulder through the cotton. Trixie rubs her cheek against that spot, and goes completely still, her breath evening out immediately.

Katya stays awake for much, much longer: but when she wakes up, she feels amazing, well-rested and bursting with joy. Surprisingly enough, her mood holds through their morning routine, even though there's no coffee in the flat: something Trixie grumbles about quite angrily as she does her make-up. Katya manages to pacify her somewhat with a strong brew of Glengettie (Welsh tea makes everything better, she finds), and by the time they leave for work, they’re both much too giddy for this early in the morning.

Trixie steps out to the street outside _Krisis_, and turns to face Katya with a solemn expression. “Thank you for a great day—and night. Can we do it again, please?” She hoists her half-zipped bag higher on her shoulder, moving some stuff inside it, and a corner of a navy blue cardboard folder catches Katya’s eye. She mentally slaps herself on the forehead.

“Oh, definitely! But before you go—“ she takes Trixie’s hand, making sure she doesn’t sprint away to wherever, “I’ve got something for you, and I should have given it to you on Tuesday already: could you come in for just a minute?”

She opens the shop and runs straight for the black folder, tucked safely away in her Outgoing box; she presents it to Trixie with a flourish, and is completely amazed to see her face fall into an image of shock and disgust. “You left it here when you first came for that novelty card, and I thought—Trixie? Darling, are you okay?”

Trixie makes no move to take the folder; her hands are shaking, she drops the bag to the floor and presses her fingers to her mouth, smudging up the lipstick. "This—what—Katya, did you _read this_?”

_What a stupid thing to ask_, her mind takes offence. “Of course not! I know enough about GDPR and shit, and besides—it was _private_, Trixie. I never would have.”

“I know, Katya, I know,” Trixie whines, rubbing a knuckle into one eye and ruining her carefully applied make-up. She seems completely crushed for some unfathomable reason, and reaches out to take hold of Katya’s wrists, the folder squashed between them. “I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have even asked you that. It’s just—it’s a part of a case I was working, a pretty nasty one, and I wouldn’t want you to think that… fuck.” She takes a long, calming breath, squeezes Katya’s arms again. “I don’t want you to think badly of me. My job requires me to do some awful shit, and I try to stay away from it, but sometimes I just _can’t_, and it makes me so bloody angry to think that you could’ve—“

“Hey, Trixie, hey,” Katya lets the folder drop to the floor (some papers slide out of it, but she doesn’t take notice) and moves her hand to Trixie’s face, wiping away her tears. “Look—I know I said I wanted to slow things down with us, even though I still want to know a whole lot of things about you: but I would _never_ go behind your back about it. Do you believe me?" Trixie nods, inhaling sharply through her nose in a feeble attempt at stopping the tears. “Good. We’re fine, Trixie, we’re _great_. Now let’s get you cleaned up so you can—“

And then she’s being kissed by Trixie, and everything else goes away. Trixie’s mouth tastes familiar, like Katya’s toothpaste, but it’s also a whole new world she wants to (_needs to_) explore in detail, moaning as she surges forward, tugging at Trixie’s hair, licking behind her teeth. Trixie lets out a rumble low in her throat, pushes Katya backwards against the counter. Slips a thigh between hers, pushes up.

_Screw the Monday morning shoppers. This bookstore is now closed, officially._

Too bad she's too engrossed in snogging Trixie to actually take a moment and _lock the door_.

She’s got Trixie’s pretty jacket halfway off her shoulders (and it’s not due to lack of trying, Trixie simply _won’t let go of her_) when the tell-tale sound of the bell, and an irritated cough, makes them fall reluctantly apart. There’s a woman standing by the door: a short, slim character with a mop of frazzled black hair on her head and a sour grimace on her lips. She’s wearing some sort of a business suit, slightly ill-fitting and caked in mud around the hems of her trousers, and carries a thick black cardboard folder, much like the one currently lying open at Trixie’s feet.

“Hello, Ms. Zamolodchikova,” she enunciates Katya’s name perfectly, but the cool malice of her voice makes Katya shiver. “I’m here to check the progress of my associate’s work.” Her eyes, dark and humourless, move to Trixie. “Hello, Beatrice.”

** _TBC…_ **


	5. I Don't Know You

Katya’s head whips around: she has no idea what’s going on, but a particularly nasty premonition starts crawling up her back. Trixie’s face is ashen white, her lips pressed into a thin line; Katya can clearly see muscles contract in her cheek. “Belz. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Checking on _you_, dear cousin, since I couldn’t manage to get in touch with you for close to a week,” the woman replies in a sickening, artificially sweet voice, and turns to Katya. “Allow me to introduce myself—Isabella Flywatcher, at your—“ she purses her lips, licks them purposefully, “—service. I’m with Haydes, Epstein, Lowell & Lowell. Has Beatrice explained the nature of our proposal?"

Katya looks down at the spilled documents for the very first time, takes in the elaborate header “H.E.L.L.” on top of each page. “No, she most certainly has not.” _And worried about my having possibly read it myself_, her mind supplies readily. She feels dizzy, she needs air and space, and—she pushes Trixie away gently; she goes without protest, crying again.

The dark-haired woman gives Katya a wide, fake smile, puts her own folder neatly on the counter. “Ms. Zamolodchikova. I represent the interests of a corporate client who would like to purchase this venue. The offer they made is quite generous; I encourage you to read through it at your earliest—“

“_Krisis_ is not for sale,” Katya spits out, colour rising in her cheeks. “And you should be talking to Ru Charles about it, not me.”

“Oh, we did,” Flywatcher rolls her eyes with indignation. “Back when the pub was being refurbished. She declined our proposal.”

Katya straightens up her back, feeling a surge of confidence. “Well, there you go, then. Case closed.”

“Not exactly, ma’am. If Beatrice had _done her job properly_, you would know that this file also contains proof of multiple tax evasion practises and double-accounting performed by Ms. Charles in the last four to five years.”

She stumbles backwards, catches herself on the counter edge. “_What_?!”

“It’s more than enough to build a convincing case against Ms. Charles, but just in case it wasn't: please note that our firm prides itself at exploring all available routes of possible questioning.”

“Belz,” Trixie whispers, looking as pale as a sheet. “Don't.”

“Don’t _what_, dear cousin? You had a job to do, I am merely making sure it’s been done correctly. How are we on the ‘drunk-and-disorderly behaviour of an employee to a possible tax swindler’ route?”

“Belz—“

“I think you should leave.” Both lawyers turn to look at Katya, who studiously avoids their gazes. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor, desperately trying to keep her tears and blinding _fury_ inside. "I think you should leave _right now_. Leave the goddamned papers, I will have _my_ lawyer study them, because I do not believe a single word from you.” She raises her head, fixes Flywatcher with a steady, cold look. Thinks of KQBC, of Jinkx who hadn’t had any queer friends before coming to her first meeting a year ago, newspaper-wrapped Waters book in hand. She thinks of Mrs. Maloney, coming in every Wednesday to pick up her subscriptions. Of the retired colonel selling a book at a time in winter months; of how she would subtly bump up the price, knowing the money would help him pay the heating bill. Of herself, a royal mess turned regular citizen, all thanks to Ru and to this place, the people she meets and the friendships she strikes up. “This isn’t a token you can sell to whatever rich arsehole that wants to open yet another vegan grill place or a brothel to launder their dirty money. This is a _community_. And we won’t give it up without a fight.”

Isabella Flywatcher hums under her breath, curling her lips into a nasty grimace. "Words, words, words, Ms. Zamolodchikova. I bid you good day. You have one week before we open up legal proceedings. Come along, Beatrice.”

Trixie stays, despite Flywatcher’s insistent glare. Katya turns away resolutely; she can’t—won’t—do it now. “Please,” Trixie whispers, coming up close enough that Katya feels her breath on the nape of her neck. “I didn’t—“

“What, Trixie, what _didn’t you do_?” Katya snaps, whirling around and closing her hands into fists. “Bring me wine, so that I would get drunk? Rummage around my shop, hoping to uncover whatever bullshit you might have used against me? Almost _get me arrested_ yesterday? Play with my—“ she will not say _feelings_, not now, “—emotions to get into my life? My _bed_? Fuck, the things I’ve told you… you probably have an entire case build up against me, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t know, Katya! Belz told me I should deliver the papers, make you an offer: that’s what I _do_, that’s my job. Yes, she did suggest the wine, she thought we might benefit from us striking up a friendship, but…” She swallows hard, reaches out to touch Katya’s arm: she flinches away instantly, and Trixie’s hand falls heavily to her side. “I never expected to _like you_. And once I did, I stopped: I was glad that I lost the folder, I wasn’t taking Belz’ calls, you saw me do that, remember? I—hated the idea of _Krisis_ being taken away from you.”

“But you still came here, that first night, ready to do it. And for what? For a _job_ you clearly don’t like all that much? This is proper shite, Trixie, and you know it.”

“Katya, _please_. Belz is my only cousin, she practically raised me after my parents died, so you’ve got to understand that—“

“I don’t _have to_ do _anything_, Trixie,” Katya hisses, pushing her hand away. ”So she helped you along the way. You’re grateful. I get that. _So what_? Are you going to allow actions and beliefs you do not condone shape your entire future? To ruin _other people’s lives_? Because I’ll tell you this—I have cousins, too. And they were the ones who pushed and prodded at me until I took my first shot of vodka, first pill, first piece of meth. I loved them, I grew up with them, I _cared for them_: but they were bad for me, so I _let. Them. Go_.” She pauses, turns away and rests her elbows on the counter, head hung low between her shoulders. “You know what Ru told me, when I asked why she was leaving _Krisis_ to me, and not one of her nieces or nephews? She said that we, as queer people—as the ones that don’t fit in—get to _choose_ our families. They say that blood’s thicker than water, but Trixie: there’s _so much more_ than shared genes that binds you to other people.

“Ru is my family. This place is my home. I am not going anywhere. But I think you should.”

“Katya—“

“No,” she interrupts firmly, turns back to look at Trixie, at her darling face, wet with tears and running make-up, much in the same way it was on the night they met, less than two weeks ago. So much has changed, and yet: so little. She still doesn’t know the first thing about her.

She’s not sure if she wants to, anymore.

“No, Trixie. No more.

“Get the fuck out of my home.”

** _TBC…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me in the comments, or on Tumblr @maplefay.


	6. Just Like That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaand here we are! Thanks for the ride, lovely people, you've been amazing! Hope you enjoy the final chapter - I know I loved writing it.
> 
> Come and yell at me on Tumblr @maplefay if you're so inclined :)
> 
> PS. Yes, Trixie does make a "Buffy" reference in this chapter ;)

She cries for approximately an hour, curled up against the shop door, the “Closed” sign on and the blinds pulled down. By the time she’s done, Trixie has called her a total of seven times, and left several voice messages: Katya resolutely blacklists her number, and calls Sasha instead. The call turns into a massive group chat—Katya does her best to ignore Trixie’s texts that still keep on coming—and before long the KQBC girls start filing in through the back door, bringing supplies in form of Indian takeaway, coffee, and legal advice.

Sasha opens up Katya’s computer and skypes Ru, pulling up some accounting data from recent months and going through them with her in a hushed voice. Dela wraps a thick blanket around Katya’s shoulders, places a mug of sickly sweet tea in her hand, and kisses her forehead.

“We’ll get through this, babes,” she promises firmly, and Katya almost believes her.

The brainstorming lasts until past midnight, when it abruptly ends—for Katya, whom Shea has managed to convince to take a pill of melatonin, and _fuck off to bed_. She falls asleep to the soft murmur of her friends’ voices downstairs, once more wrapping herself in a sleeping bag since all her pillows and the duvet have ended up in a shameful pile by the door.

They still smell of Trixie.

\--

Ru flies in from LA on the following evening, and Katya _breaks_.

“I’m so sorry,” she says into Ru’s shoulder, “I shouldn’t have—“

Ru kisses her hair, completely put together despite having come to the bookstore straight from the airport. “This isn’t your fault, honey. Stop berating yourself, and help us work it out.”

Katya clenches her jaw, grinds her teeth, and pulls up her figurative sleeves.

She’s not really productive, and apologizes to everyone so much that they send her away after a few hours of pointless research. She takes another herbal sedative, spits out some camomile tea, and decides to sleep away the funk.

She dreams of Trixie, looking completely dishevelled as she kneels by the side of Katya’s bed, hair in disarray, make-up ruined, and a lot of skin on display. _I’m sorry_, dream-Trixie says, reaching out for Katya’s hand, kissing her fingertips. _Let me make this up to you_.

Katya makes her hurt in the dream. Everything she would never have thought of wide awake: biting the juncture of Trixie’s neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood, marking her flawless pink skin with angry nail marks, pulling at her hair as she presses hard, bruising kisses down her torso—she wakes up sweaty, angry and bothered, reaches down beneath the duvet, pulls her hand away, fingers sleek with want and cheeks burning with shame.

She doesn’t sleep much that night, despite being overwhelmingly exhausted, physically and spiritually: but when she wakes, her thoughts once again (regrettably, shamefully) turn to Trixie. She sits up in her bed, staring at her own toes and trying to recall that blissful feeling of waking up with a handful of Trixie’s hair in her mouth.

She curses her own stupidity, and takes a cold, _cold_ shower. It doesn’t help much.

\--

By the end of the fourth day, everybody’s frustrated, even the terminally delightful and chirpy Dela. Ru tells them straight up that the folder brought in by Flywatcher—by _Trixie_—contains pure fabrications: but they’re put together expertly enough to be nigh indestructible without counter-evidence. Which they don’t have, because the actual accounting ledgers are quite similar to the fabricated ones. Katya could easily testify to their correctness, but even Ru has to admit that she wouldn’t be the most convincing witness, given her past and Flywatcher’s eagerness to exploit it.

“You should never have employed me,” Katya says to Ru, standing in the bookshop doorway, looking out onto the rainy street. Ru puts an arm around her shoulders, holds her tight.

“I should have, I did, and I would again,” she declares firmly, and pulls Katya back in from the cold and damp.

(She thinks she sees a flash of pink out of the corner of her eye, but it could be anything. Or nothing at all.)

\--

“We’re at wit’s end, Katya,” Ru says on the morning of the fifth day, looking up at Katya from her seat behind a table laden with empty coffee cups. She wants to apologize again, but Ru waves her off. “Help has been offered, but there are some... conditions."

“I am not going to like it, am I?” Katya sighs, rubbing the toe of her boot against the wooden floor. "What must I do?“

“Miss Mattel called me last night.” Katya bristles instantly, but Ru goes on unfazed, “Heavens knows where she got my number from. She wants to give us some leverage against H.E.L.L.—but she will only speak with you. She did sound genuinely sorry for everything.”

“Well, _I’m_ sorry, too,” she spits out angrily, pulling on a loose thread in her sleeve, “for letting her in in the first place.”

“She seems to have come around, though,” Ru points out gently, obviously ignoring Katya’s protests. “And I am a firm believer in second chances.”

She’s got a point, and knows exactly how to get it across. “Did she say anything else? What she has, why she wants to hep us all of a sudden? I don’t _trust her_, Ru.”

The other woman crosses her arms, fixing her with a long, measuring look. “You’re hurt, and I can’t blame you for that—but don’t forget who you are, alright?”

“And who is that?” Katya wraps her arms around herself, turning around to look out at the cold, rainy street. _A junkie, a _former_ one if she’s feeling gracious. A royal mess. A fuck-up_.

“A good person, Katya. Most people can’t say that about themselves.”

\--

She would have pegged Trixie as some sort of a law prodigy, living in a top-floor flat on a wharf somewhere; in reality, her flat is a hole-in-the-wall on the South Bank, the stairway reeking of stale piss. Katya climbs up three steps at a time, trying to make herself believe that her shortness of breath is due to physical exertion, not nerves. She knocks on the door with considerably more force than necessary, flinching at the noise—and the speed with which Trixie lets her in.

She’s not wearing any make-up, her hair is a mess, and her long-sleeved tee is stained at the hem. Katya feels a pang of obscene satisfaction when she realizes she's not the only one feeling miserable.

“You came,” Trixie breathes, run a shaky hand through her matted curls. “_Thank you_.”

“I didn’t do this for you,” Katya tells her sternly, though maybe, perhaps, she did a little. “What’ve you got?”

Trixie beckons her to follow—the flat is a maze of clothes hangers haphazardly placed on numerous pegs along the walls, half-opened suitcases, make-up supplies, vinyl records and plants—and Katya walks behind her into a sitting room barely big enough to hold a sofa, a bookcase and a low chest of drawers doubling as a coffee table. A large red folder lies open between an empty tea cup and a dead phone with a crack running right across the screen—Trixie picks up some papers, leafs through them quickly.

“I didn’t have time to get much, but these—these look like draft versions of the books Belz told me to get to you.” She picks up a USB drive, places it in the folder alongside the documents. “Digital versions have timestamps. They could have been tampered, theoretically, but it should at least give you some leverage in court… if it goes to court at all. Belz doesn’t like losing; she might just quit if you tell her what you have.”

This is actually solid, Katya thinks, nodding deeply as she takes the folder from Trixie and stuffs it in her bag. “Thank you,” she says, purposefully not making eye contact. “Ru will be very pleased.”

“Didn’t do it for her.”

She sighs, pushes her fingers into her eyes. “Trixie—“

“No, Katya, please—just—fuck that.” Trixie crosses the tiny space to stand right in front of Katya; she can smell her: a true, unmasked smell of a female body that hasn’t been washed of covered in cosmetics for quite a while, not long enough to stink but just long enough to return to its natural state. “You know very well why I did it. You may not accept it for what it is, that’s fine: but _please_ let me say this, alright?” Katya nods mutely without opening her eyes, feels Trixie’s hands cupping her elbows, holds her breath. “I don’t know what happened to me when I walked into your shop. The lights went out, and something… changed, I can’t describe it right. I wish I could, because maybe this,” she squeezes Katya’s arms gently, sways into her, “would start making some sense, then.

“Yes, I did come to _Krisis_ to give you the papers. Yes, they were meant to fuck your business up. No, I didn’t know your personal history. Didn’t know what it would mean to bring you wine—to get you written up by the authorities of any kind. I’m sure Belz would have been really proud if I’d done that. I’m glad I didn’t.

“I don’t know what I could say to make this better. I fucked up, big time. I hope that you manage to dissuade Belz—that she leaves your boss the hell alone.

“I hope,” she swallows, and Katya can almost feel her throat contract, “that you may grow to not hate me. Someday.”

Katya opens her eyes, twists her hands upwards to touch Trixie’s elbows in a mirroring gesture. “What made you change your mind?”

“Sasha, actually. What she’d said about my not being who I am now because of the people around me, but due to my own choices. I—never thought of it that way; Belz made sure of it. I believed I’d be nothing without her: without the firm backing me up.” She looks pleadingly at Katya, takes the smallest step in her direction. “And then, there was _you_: with all the baggage and all the courage. I liked you, I _wanted you_, and I admired you. It was new for me. It _still _feels new: and possibly like the craziest thing I've ever done.”

”I know the feeling,” Katya says softly, allowing herself a sad little smile. Trixie nods solemnly.

“I do hope you will forgive me, and not hate me anymore.”

“I don’t. I actually think I hate _myself_ for not hating you.”

“So we’re not good.”

Katya shakes her head very slowly. “I don’t know what we are.”

“I think I do.” Trixie steps away (Katya feels cold without her touch) and disappears into a doorway on the left, coming right back with a copy of _Christopher and His Kind_ in her hands. She opens the book on a passage underlined in pink highlighter, presents it for Katya's inspection.

** _They couldn’t think of themselves as lovers, yet sex had given friendship an extra dimension._ **

Katya looks up from the page, only half aware of the book sliding from her fingers and falling to the floor. “We're not friends, Trixie. And we haven’t had sex.”

”I know,” Trixie nods, her eyes not straying from Katya for a single second, “but you’re still my extra dimension. You make me complete."

The stubborn part of Katya, full of resentment and grief, wants to ignore her words.

Katya’s heart knows better.

\--

Trixie’s bed is—again, surprisingly; but perhaps she’s _not_ the prodigy Katya’d taken her for—terribly narrow and devilishly uncomfortable. It takes them all of five minutes to realize that pulling the duvet and some pillows down to the floor is a much better option than risking being impaled on a rusty spring. Trixie takes the momentary break in their kisses as a chance to pin Katya down, lick a path from her right ear to her sternum, press an open mouthed kiss over her heart.

“You won’t regret this,” she whispers, to Katya, to her _heart_, to whatever Higher Being might be listening to them. “That’s a promise.”

Katya groans deep in her throat, pulls at Trixie’s hair purposefully, arches her back as Trixie sucks a nipple into her mouth. “I already do.” She pants into Trixie’s hair, grabs a handful of her ass and squeezes possessively. “You talk too much.”

Trixie has the audacity to laugh at that, and Katya flips them over, slides down, licks behind Trixie’s knee like she’d wanted to from the start. Crawls upwards, noses her way into the warmth and the wetness that make her mouth water. Quenches that thirst only to become desperate again, the moment Trixie breaks against her tongue.

It’s messy, it’s frantic, it leaves them covered in scratches and bruises, gasping for breath as they lie side by side, just their hands touching in the small space between their bodies.

“I hope we can work on the friendship thing, too,” Trixie says, looking unsure now that their want has crested and fallen.

“Maybe,” Katya quips, reaching out to trace the outline of her lips with the pad of her sticky thumb. Trixie catches it between her teeth, licks her own desire from Katya’s skin. “If I get to live in peace for a while longer.”

“I’ll help you with that. Just you wait.” Trixie presses her free hand to the skin between Katya’s breasts; she seems obsessed with being close to Katya’s heart, and the other woman doesn’t begrudge her that—as long as she doesn’t break it.

Hopefully, not for a lifetime.

**/end**

**Author's Note:**

> Come hit me up on Tumblr @maplefay if you like!


End file.
